


Eric Tenorman Must Die

by zuotian



Category: South Park
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Apologies to Ashton Kutcher and Mila Kunis, Birthday Presents, Character Study, Cliffhangers, F/M, M/M, Mommy Issues, Mommy Kink, Parent/Child Incest, Prostitution, References to Dr. Suess, Sex, Squick, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-06
Updated: 2020-01-06
Packaged: 2021-02-27 05:34:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22141861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zuotian/pseuds/zuotian
Summary: What a way to celebrate his eighteenth birthday. Thanks, Obama.
Relationships: Eric Cartman/Kenny McCormick, Eric Cartman/Liane Cartman
Comments: 10
Kudos: 23





	Eric Tenorman Must Die

**Author's Note:**

> this all started because i wondered what the total opposite of "scott tenorman must die" would be. i kept things intentionally vague. not sorry about the ending.
> 
> [Hey  
>  Been trying to meet you  
>  Hey  
>  Must be a devil between us  
>  Or whores in my head  
>  Whores at my door  
>  Whores in my bed  
>  But hey  
>  Where have you been?  
>  If you go, I will surely die  
>  We're chained  
>  'Uh' said the man to the lady  
>  'Uh' said the lady to the man she adored  
>  And the whores like a choir  
>  Go 'uh' all night  
>  And Mary ain't you tired of this?  
>  Uh  
>  Is  
>  The  
>  Sound  
>  That the mother makes when the baby breaks  
>  We're chained](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tVCUAXOBF7w)  
> 

ALL CHARACTERS AND EVENTS IN THIS FANFICTION—EVEN THOSE BASED ON A REAL SHOW—ARE ENTIRELY GRATUITOUS. ALL CANONICAL DIALOGUE IS IMPERSONATED ... POORLY. THE FOLLOWING FANFICTION CONTAINS COARSE LANGUAGE AND DUE TO ITS CONTENT IT SHOULD NOT BE READ BY ANYONE.

Eric regarded his date of conception the same as Barack Obama’s presidency: best to let pass without comment, except everybody insisted on making a huge deal out of it. Obama offered empty promises for change. Well, so too did legal adulthood. The only optimistic part of another three-hundred-sixty-five days on this planet is that you’re another three-hundred-sixty-five steps closer to death. Eric’s friends hounded him about the big old eighteen for a week straight. Eventually he invited them to a basement bro-down just so they’d shut up. Naturally they did not.

“This is so lame, dude,” Stan moaned, splayed across the futon. “You’re fucking eighteen, man. We should be getting sloshed at Skeeter’s.”

“That’s twenty-one you’re thinking of,” Kyle said next to him. “We’ve got three more years.”

“Nuh-huh.” Stan lifted his paternally-pilfered beer as evidence. “Anything’s possible.”

“You’re welcome to get shit-faced on your own damn time,” said Eric sitting cross-legged on the carpet, his gaze fastened to the television screen. He had bought _himself_ a new RPG, the only boon of the day. “Unfortunately my father isn’t an alcoholic. I don’t have your genetic tendencies.”

“The only tendencies you got is being a buzzkill, Tenorman,” Stan countered. He peeled his back off the futon. “Kenny, quit hogging the weed.”

Eric glanced at the blond bimbo beside him. Kenny’s hollowed cheeks lifted from the neck of Stan’s bong, billowed smooth and easy. His eyes met Eric’s through the smoke. Eric looked back at the television.

“Sorry,” Kenny coughed. He passed the bong over his head. “Here.”

“Jesus,” Stan said upon checking the stem. “This was supposed to be _Tenorman’s_ present. Not yours.”

“Yeah, real thoughtful of you to steal your dad’s weed for me,” Eric said. “Didn’t cost you a dime.”

Kyle responded in Stan’s stead as he hit the bong. “Kenny didn’t buy you anything, either.”

“Kenny’s poor. You two are privileged assholes. You can shell a few bucks. You’re the ones all excited about my birthday.”

The bong ceased bubbling. “’Cause we wanted to do something _cool_ ,” Stan wheezed. “Not sit in your basement like we do all the time.”

“Don’t worry, Stan,” Kyle said. “We can take you to Chuck E Cheese for yours, since you’re so concerned.”

“Shut up, man.”

Kenny positioned a tactical elbow in Eric’s lap. “I got Tenorman something. I’m gonna give it to him later.”

Eric’s thumbs stuttered on the PS4 controller. “Uh—what?”

“What the hell can you afford?” Stan asked.

“It’s a pony,” Kenny said.

“Probably some brony sex doll,” Kyle theorized. “Stan, pass.”

Kenny pressed his razor-sharp elbow into Eric’s crotch as their friends traded the bong back and forth. Eric jerked in surprise. His onscreen character fell off a cliff.

“You should’ve been the mage, dude,” Kenny said. “With the big titties. Less fall damage.”

“That’s not how the game works.” Eric tossed the controller aside. “Would you please quit?”

Kenny retracted his eblow. “Okay.”

The bong touched Eric’s shoulder. “Here, dude,” Kyle said.

Eric took a hit and blew it into Kenny’s face. Kenny’s mouth lolled open in a one-sided shotgun. Eric pushed him away. He fell on his back, laughing, long yellow hair sticking to the carpet like staticy string cheese.

“Let’s watch a movie,” Eric recommended.

He shoved between Stan and Kyle thinking that would ward off Kenny’s advances. It only exacerbated the situation. Kenny remained on the floor where he fingered Eric’s socked toes and bare cankles. Eric couldn’t retaliate or else Stan and Kyle would catch onto the fact that he was possibly sexually attracted to Kenny, so he packed as many bowls as necessary to numb his lower body.

They were halfway through the flick—and Eric halfway to a boner—when Scott clambered downstairs in all his pimply, ginger glory. Scott was a whole twenty-four years old. A wizened scholar compared to the rest of them, he liked to think. He moved back home after dropping out of community college and readily assumed his old job as Eric’s torturer in between flipping burgers at McDonald’s. He always smelled like greasy beef patties and couldn’t die soon enough, in Eric’s opinion.

“What’s up, butt-fucks?” He was also a very creative instigator.

“Get lost,” Eric sneered.

Scott planted his ass on the last step. “Happy birthday. Who brought weed?”

“I did,” Stan said.

“Can you spare some?”

“It’s for me,” Eric said. “It’s mine.”

Scott shrugged. “So?”

Stan tapped the crown of Kenny’s head. “Hand it over.”

Kenny folded his neck over Eric’s knee. Smoke ribboned out of his pierced nostrils. “No.”

Scott stood up, completed two lanky strides, and snatched the bong and lighter out of Kenny’s hands. “Thanks, dude.”

Eric tensed. “Fucking dick!”

“Shit’s weak,” Scott evaluated. He returned the bong to Kenny, who eyed him feisty as a sewer rat. “What’re you looking at?”

“Don’t talk to him,” Eric snapped. “Don’t even look at him.”

Scott lifted an inquisitive eyebrow. “Huh.”

Kenny rose and fisted Scott’s Radiohead t-shirt. Just as tall and skinny as Scott for naught; the equilateral intimidation tactic would’ve been effective against anybody else. “I’m looking at a fucking asshole,” he said.

“Oh, Christ,” Kyle muttered.

Eric hooked a foot around Kenny’s leg, yanked him back. “Just forget about it, Kenny.”

“Yeah, Kenny,” Scott smirked. “Forget about it.”

Stan straightened. “Is there a reason you’re here, or?”

Scott’s smirk swiveled. “Yes, in fact, there is. I gotta give Eric his present.”

“You didn’t get me anything,” Eric said.

“Did too,” Scott said. “We have to go to _it_ , though. You can all go.”

Kyle wrangled the controller from under Eric’s thigh and paused the movie. “What is it?”

“Well it wouldn’t be a surprise if I told you, would it?”

They all looked at Eric, awaiting his verdict. “Fine,” he said. “We’ll go.”

“Alright!” Scott ruffled Eric’s hair, then danced out of counterattack range all the way upstairs. His voice needled them through the floorboards. “Gotta wait about an hour or so. It’s time sensitive!”

Silence fell, charged with Scott’s ominous exodus. “That was weird,” Stan said.

Kenny deposited the bong to the carpet. “I’m gonna smoke a cigarette.” He stared at Eric. “You want one?”

“I’d rather not get lung cancer,” Eric said.

“It’ll be your birthday present. Come on.” Kenny tugged his arm. “Come on, Tenorman.”

Eric allowed himself to be dragged outside. Kenny didn’t let go until they reached his janky pickup truck. The doors moaned opened; Kenny left his cracked to keep the egg-yolk light frothing overhead. He lit a cigarette, gave it to Eric, then lit another. Eric never liked smoking, but indulging in another person’s vices was a good method of camaraderie. He wasn’t sure what vice he’d like Kenny to experience.

Kenny slid across the bench and threw an arm over his shoulders. “You shouldn’t let Scott fuck with you like that.”

Eric watched the dark street in front of them, Kenny’s hair tickling his neck, Kenny’s cigarette singing his nostrils, Kenny’s arm an anchor. “Scott’s a jackass. But—I dunno.” He sucked another drag for the nasty hell of it. “After eighteen years of his bullshit it’s easier to ignore.”

“I woulda laid him out,” Kenny said.

Eric snorted. “I know. I could tell.”

“Think he knows we’re together?”

“We’re not together, Kenny.”

“Sure we’re not.” Kenny’s palm slipped under Eric’s t-shirt and palpated his paunch. “Ready for my present?”

“Fuck—” Eric writhed in a thousand directions, torn between getting away and getting closer. “You’re killing me.”

“Yes or no, Tenorman?”

“I don’t know.”

“It’ll be real quick, I promise.” Kenny was already bent over, mouthing Eric’s burgeoning erection through the fly of his cargo shorts. “I’m a pro.”

Eric gripped Kenny’s hair. It didn’t work because he was into that sort of stuff. Eric had to use his words. “Kenny—stop, I’m serious.”

Kenny looked up, unswayed by half-assed verbiage. “I know you want it.”

“What I _want_ is to not walk inside with jizz in my pants.”

“Ugh, fine.” Kenny’s back thumped vertical. He sulkily chowed carcinogens, hacked a smoky partition to soften the conversation. Very understanding. “When are you gonna let me at your dick, if it ain’t on your _birthday_?”

Eric supplemented the wall dividing them. “Maybe Christmas,” he exhaled.

“Is it ‘cause you’re nervous about being gay?”

“I’m straight as an arrow. You’re half a chick, anyway.”

“Yeah—” Kenny grabbed Eric’s hand and shoved it between his legs. “—except for this.”

Eric chuffed at the semi he encountered. “Holy shit.”

Kenny released his fingers. “Just think about it.”

Eric thought about it the rest of the movie. Kenny stopped molesting him and yet the ghosts of spider-leg touches still haunted his feet. Maybe in another universe he had the balls to bring Kenny upstairs and fuck him right in front of Scott. In this universe he simply chased after every one of Kenny’s fly-away hairs and ammunition stares but never pulled the trigger. One of these days they’d have to leave the shooting range.

Scott returned right as the credits rolled, the punctual bastard. “It’s go time, boys. I’ll drive.”

Everybody got up and put their shoes on. Eric was the most high and thus last to reanimate. “There’s five of us,” he said whilst struggling to tie his sneakers.

Scott jangled a set of keys. “Mom’s letting me borrow the van.”

They trundled into the minivan, a Boy Scout troop with Scott as their leader. Eric sat in the passenger seat, Stan and Kyle sat behind him, and Kenny behind them. Every time Eric checked the rearview mirror Kenny’s eyes were waiting for him. All Eric had to do was give the signal and Kenny would pull some rabies-hick John Wick maneuverer and take control of the situation. Eric feared that more than whatever Scott had planned. He stopped checking the rearview mirror.

Stan facilitated a blunt. It stayed behind the wheel an exorbitant amount. Nobody protested. The thing with Scott was not that he was outwardly intimidating—but he had the potential to be. He carried the air of someone who could kill your parents, put them into chili, and feed them to you. Eric had been on the receiving end of his ire for eighteen years. Only Kenny knew the full extent—all the busted noses and curb stomps. Only Kenny knew anything.

His voice projected from the back of the van. “Where’re we going, Scott?”

“A place, Kenny,” Scott said. “Don’t ask questions. I don’t wanna ruin the surprise.”

The place turned out to be a seedy motel on the edge of town buttressed by the highway feeding into I-70. Scott popped his door open. Everyone spilled out into the near-empty lot. Broken beer bottles and shattered meth pipes crunched under their shoes. Basically your average Chuck E Cheese.

Eric eyed the row of mystery doors with trepidation. Kenny drifted to his side, asked, “What the fuck is this?”

“Yeah,” Kyle said. “I’ve got a bad feeling.”

Stan nonchalantly puffed the dying roach. “Would you guys chill?”

Shivering despite the balmy July heat, Eric edged closer to Kenny, whose weedy frame offered zero warmth. “Tell me my birthday present isn’t crack, Scott.”

Scott braced his elbows on the hood of the minivan, steepled his fingers. Irishman as Mafia boss. He inevitably botched the oxymoronic performance. Still, you had to take him seriously. “It’s not crack,” he said. “It’s a crack _whore_.”

“Whoa,” Kyle said.

Stan held onto his shoulder, guffawing smoke. “Holy fucking _Christ_ —”

“You didn’t,” Eric said. Kenny steadied him with a hand on his arm. “You _didn’t_ ,” he said again.

Scott’s manic grin was confirmation enough. “You’re a man, Eric. Time to man up.”

“Tenorman doesn’t have to up anything,” Kenny said. He squeezed Eric’s arm. “Forget this bullshit. Let’s bounce.”

“Hold on—” Scott pushed off the van and grabbed Eric’s other arm. “You’re gonna let your tranny boyfriend tell you what to do? This is a right of _passage_ , little brother.”

“You’re not my fucking brother,” Eric seethed.

Scott tore him out of Kenny’s grip. “Am too! I’m your _half-_ brother.”

Kenny snatched him back. “Fuck off, Scott!”

“ _You_ fuck off, Kenny!”

Scott conquered the game of tug of war and doled a victorious fist to Kenny’s face. Eric pivoted towards Kenny. Scott locked him in a chokehold. Stan and Kyle caught Kenny mid-stumble, righted him against the side of the van. Blood trickled down his chin. He hacked a red loogie at Scott’s feet.

Eric fell limp. “Kenny—stop. Stop it.”

“I’m not gonna stop,” Kenny slobbered. Spit and blood glued his hair to his cupid’s bow. “I’ve been waiting for this!”

Scott dropped Eric into the gravel and stalked forward. Sensing the fight coming on, Stan and Kyle skedaddled beside Eric.

“Hey, you okay?” Kyle asked.

Eric climbed to his feet, brushed the glass off his arms. “Yeah.”

“Here,” Stan said.

He passed the roach. Eric pinched it between his fingertips, gulped until the paper burned his lips.

Scott, meanwhile, had Kenny pinned to the van by his neck. “What’re you gonna do, Kenny? Huh?”

Kenny wriggled under Scott’s forearm. “I’m gonna fucking kill you!”

“You’re just pissed ‘cause you wanted to be the one to pop Eric’s cherry,” Scott leered. “You’re hoping he’d save himself for you, huh?”

Eric turned around, unable to meet Kenny’s widened eyes. Stan and Kyle spun after him.

“Is that true?” Stan asked.

“No,” Eric said.

Kenny let out a viscous growl. Something hard thunked into the van. The sound of a shoe hitting flesh filled the air.

“Hear that, Kenny?” Scott asked. “Eric doesn’t wanna be your butt buddy.”

“Tenorman,” Kenny coughed. “Eric—c’mon, man—”

Eric looked at him crumpled on the ground, dirt and glass tangled in his hair, eyes begging for something they both knew Eric would never be able to give him.

Scott paused, one foot held above Kenny. “What’s it gonna be, bro?”

“I’ll fuck the crack whore,” Eric said.

Kenny closed his eyes. All the fight drained out of him with nothing to fight for. Scott laughed and brought the smite down. Eric’s gut cemented with ambivalence. Whizzing cars and screaming cicadas provided a befitting theme song. Schroedinger's _n_ _o_ _v_ _a_ _cancy_ sign blinked in and out of neon existence.

“That’s enough,” Kyle barked. He swept forward and inserted himself between Scott and Kenny. “You proved your point.”

“No,” Scott said, stepping back. “Eric proved his point.”

Kyle squatted next to Kenny. Stan sent Eric a scathing glare, then joined them. Kenny bit a cigarette between bloody teeth and lit it with shaking hands. Smoke soon veiled him from view.

Eric didn’t have time to listen in on his friends’ softspoken conversation. Scott slung an arm around his waist, directed him a few paces away. “Room 2-B,” his half-brother said. “She’s waiting. Paid her up front.”

Eric shut his ears to Kenny’s whisper-quiet curses. “Who is she? Better not be some gross ho.”

“She’s fine looking,” Scott promised. “Little older. Straight milf.”

“A what?”

“She’s an expensive kind of cheap.”

Scott tossed Eric against the mystery door. Its shoddy placard had fallen years ago and left behind grimy shadows. 2-B or not 2-B. Eric tried peeking at Kenny—Scott boxed him in, cut off his peripheral vision. If he had been able to look he would’ve seen that Kenny wasn’t waiting for him anymore.

“What am I supposed to _do_?” he asked.

“You fuck her,” Scott said. “It’s her job.”

His hand wormed behind Eric’s back. Eric fell into the open doorway. Scott slammed the door in his face.

“Oh—you’re younger than I thought you’d be.”

Eric turned around. A brunette woman sat on one of two rickety beds, legs folded underneath a black bargain bin cocktail dress. Maybe forty judging by her crow’s feet.

“I’m legal,” Eric said. “Eighteen. I promise.”

The disclaimer brought a frown to the woman’s face. Eric examined the room. It was small as a prison cell, the only amenities being a clunky box TV and squat bathroom probably crawling with black mold. He considered locking himself inside and shoving his face into the grate for a quick death.

The woman slipped off the bed and took his hand before he could put his plan into motion. “It’s your birthday.”

Eric glanced at their hands. “Yeah.”

“July first.”

“Uh—yeah.”

The woman had a soft face. A motherly kind of face. She wasn’t bad looking, either, for being so old. She looked kind of sad, though, too. And kind of familiar in an odd way.

Her red lips flashed in a subdued smile. “Happy birthday.”

“Thanks.” Eric unwound their fingers. “Listen, um. I don’t usually do this. My brother set me up.”

“That’s alright.” She moved her hand to his shoulder. “Relax, Poopsiekins.”

That wasn’t sexy at all. “I’m not into the whole mommy deal,” Eric established.

“What are you into?” she asked.

“I dunno.” Eric didn’t watch porn. His tastes were higher than that. He jacked off to indeterminate bodies that always grew blond hair and a penis. “I’m not into much of anything.”

“Everyone is into something,” she said.

She was most likely right. Eric could only imagine all the freaks she’d bed in her line of work. The thought of it made him sick. The perfume leaking out of the cracks in her makeup made him sick. “I’m gonna use the john,” he said.

He locked the door and collapsed onto the closed toilet seat. Elsewhere in the shoebox motel walls thudded with the sounds of fucking and fighting. In the parking lot Kenny was slouched smoking a defeated cigarette. Eric should’ve accepted the blowjob. He should’ve told Scott no. But he didn’t, because—he didn’t know why. Sometimes he felt like there was another person trapped inside of him, a doppleganger only Kenny saw and had tried to coax out through his dick tonight. An Eric who had not learned to deny himself what he wanted, an Eric who had not grown up under the thumb of a sadistic ginger half-brother. Maybe an Eric who had known the soft touch of his mother’s hand.

The door rustled with a polite knock. “Are you okay, dear?”

Eric stood up and flushed the toilet. He didn’t want the crack whore thinking he was taking a shit or anything. “Yeah, all good.”

She awaited him on the other side of the door, one arm braced on the jamb, the other tucked behind her hip. “We don’t have to,” she said, despite the posturing. “Your brother already paid me.”

“It’s okay,” Eric said. He couldn’t face Kenny without fucking this lady’s shriveled cervix. His betrayal had to count for something. And anyway Scott would probably check his sperm count, just to make sure. “Let’s do it,” he said in case he changed his mind. “Let’s go.”

The woman thumbed the straps of her black cocoon dress and wiggled it down her aged body. Red push-up, high-waisted lingerie contained her wrinkled fat. Eric almost asked if she had a pair of scissors. Maybe he could cut a hole into her panties and fuck her censored.

Too late. She unhooked her bra. Saggy tits fell pendulous and unsupported, areolas leering.

Eric stopped her before she went any further. “Can we turn the lights off?”

“Sure.” She knelt across the bed and tugged the lamp. Darkness washed the room. Her amorphous shadow reclined. “Come here, Poopsiekins.”

She couldn’t give up the pet name. Eric allowed it. For all he knew it was such a part of her shtick it was impossible to withhold. She probably called the governor Poopsiekins. Mommy Monica Lewinsky.

He crawled between her spread legs. “Lay down,” she said. He rested his head on her soft stomach. She started petting his hair. “That’s a good boy,” she said.

He blinked at the darkness cresting over the top of her thigh. Neon light flashed through the window blinds. _No vacancy, no vacancy._ This wasn’t what he’d been expecting. He didn’t hate it. It was kind of nice.

Lacquered nails scratched down his neck. “Mommy will take care of you,” she crooned.

“Okay,” he said.

“Sit up, sweetie. Let Mommy help you get undressed.”

She pulled his t-shirt over his head. His fat jiggled free and heavy. She didn’t comment one way or another. It’d be bad for business. He rationalized that he wasn’t the nastiest person she’d seen. He wasn’t some sixty-year-old pervert, first of all. He was a young buck.

Her fingers expertly undid his fly. He scooched back so she could divest his cargo shorts.

“Oh, what’s this?” she asked. His boxers were damp and tented. “Is my birthday boy excited?”

“Uh,” he said.

She palmed his small cock. “Want Mommy to suck you off?”

Eric chewed his lip. “I guess.”

“Alright, honey.” She cupped his armpits, as if she could pick him up like a little kid. “Sit up against the bed, now, dear.”

He positioned himself to her liking. She knelt between his thighs and folded his boxers down. His cock flopped out, a meager couple inches at full mast. It barely scraped her uvula when she swallowed him to the hilt.

Suckling noises followed. Her painted lips felt gummy and strange. Eric closed his eyes and imagined they were chapped, imagined scruff chafing his ball sac, imagined blond hair. She hallowed her cheeks, a true professional. She probably held the blowjob world record. She probably blew Kenny out of the water.

She let him fall out of her mouth. “Wanna fuck your Mommy?” she asked.

“Okay,” he said.

Her hair spilled over her shoulders as she sat up. Dyed at the roots to cover up the gray, the crown of her head bled darker than the rest. Like the top half of her skull had been sliced off. Eric placed his hand there to check if it’d fall into nothing.

“I like your hair,” he said.

“You’re sweet,” she said. A condom materialized in her hands. Perhaps she sewed a pocket into her panties, a prostitute utility belt. The plastic rolled loose over his cock. She resumed erectile maintenance. “How do you want it?”

“Um.” Anxiety lanced his stomach. “I don’t—I don’t know.”

“I could sit on you,” she suggested. “If you’re not up for what else.”

“Okay,” he said. “Sorry.”

“There’s nothing to be sorry about, hon. It’s your birthday.” She leaned forward and nosed his jaw. He’d never kissed anybody before—no girls wanted to when he was a kid, and he didn’t want them to either. She only kissed his cheek, thank God. No real kisses might’ve been an unspoken rule. “Relax, Poopsiekins,” she whispered. “Mommy’s here.”

Her panties came down. Her shaved vagina prickled Eric’s abdomen. He glanced at it out of curiosity—it didn’t appear to be forty years old. Maybe consistent exercise kept it plump and insulated.

Her clit disappeared beneath her red fingernails. She licked his jaw some more. Sex was sex. His dick didn’t know the difference between her or Kenny. The traitor chubbed at the ministrations along his jawline. The condom got wet and steamy and clung to his skin.

“Mommy,” he said. The word came from deep in his subconscious. Not out of any sexual need, but cerebral. “I want my Mommy,” he said.

“Mommy’s got you,” the crack whore promised. She reached into her utility belt again for a packet of lube. K-Y slithered down his balls. “Mommy loves you,” she said.

Eric nearly started crying. Scott probably had a camera somewhere recording all this. He was probably sitting in the minivan watching a live FBI feed, Stan and Kyle laughing with him, Kenny chained and gagged. Eric expected Ashton Kutcher to bust through the door. You got punked! Mila Kunis would be there, too, sexy as hell, and giggle at Eric’s tiny penis. Ashton Kutcher would lay her down and show Eric how to really fuck a woman. Scott would come in after them, dragging Kenny on a leash, and force Eric to watch him bang Kenny. The crack whore would protect him, swaddle him in her breasts. They’re very mean, aren’t they, Eric? she’d ask. They’re all mean, Mommy, he’d tell her. And then he’d whip out a glock and kill Scott and Ashton Kutcher and Mila Kunis, free Kenny of his bonds, and go on the lam with his blond tranny boyfriend and prostitute mother and send Stan and Kyle postcards from Spain. _Que te jodan, cojones_.

Mommy grasped his cock and lifted up on her knees. “Here we go, baby.”

Her vagina swallowed him whole. Easy-peasy-uterine-lining-squeezy. Eric winced at the foreign sensation. It felt like a Ziploc bag full of hot ground beef. She tautened her thighs to keep her weight off his lap, slipped her arms around his neck, started pumping her hips. Eric dumbly scrabbled for her waist, unsure of where to put his hands.

“That’s it,” Mommy said. “You like that, Poopsiekins?”

“Uh-huh,” he said.

Her hips were wide. He measured the breadth of her pelvic floor with his extrasensory boner powers. She’d definitely had a kid. He wondered where they were now, if they knew what their mother was doing, if they knew that she pretended to be everybody else’s mother. When he was little his step-mom used to read him and Scott a Dr. Suess book about a lost baby bird looking for his mother. Ironic, in hindsight. It all started because she initially left to get food, the neglectful bitch, and he hatched while she was away. He went around asking all sorts of animals _Are you my mother?_ The story ended with him finding her, but not until he’d almost been killed by a big old construction crane.

Eric looked at the woman sliding up and down his cock. She expelled tiny puffs of air. Neon light flashed through the blinds and highlighted her haggard expression. She was old, she was winded. Eric looked at the beside table. A pack of cigarettes sat below the lamp. She smoked, too. She probably smoked a hell of a lot to wash all the gunky cum out of her mouth. Wouldn’t you?

Her ass slapped his blubbery thighs, a sharp sound that broke Eric out of his thoughts. He redoubled his grip on her waist, pulled her down onto his cock. He didn’t know what the hell he was doing. He didn’t even watch porn. She scoffed and shrugged him off. He wasn’t helping matters. He wished Kenny were here. Kenny was a total slut. Kenny would teach him right. This bitch didn’t have the time to educate him properly. What a way to lose his virginity. What a way to celebrate his eighteenth birthday. Thanks, Obama.

His erection began to flag. The crack whore blinked, paused. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Eric said. Fire crawled up his throat and burned the corners of his eyes. “Nothing,” he said. “It’s fine. Keep going.”

“You’re crying,” she realized.

“I’m not crying,” he said. “You’re the one who’s crying.”

And she was crying. They were both crying.

“Why the hell are you crying?” Eric asked.

She climbed off his flaccid penis and sat all the way on the edge of the bed. “Nothing. No reason. This was a bad idea.”

Eric tossed her crumpled panties. “Here.”

“Thanks.” She stuck her feet through and pulled them up, grabbed her bra off the floor and shoved her boobs away. “I’ll give you a refund,” she said. “I don’t usually do this.”

“Can I bum a smoke?” Eric asked.

“Sure,” she said.

Eric stole one of her Virginia Slims and lit it with a complementary motel match. The room had poor air circulation. Sulfur dioxide mingled with the black mold. They’d be dead by the time he finished the cigarette, hopefully.

The crack whore returned with her dress on but unzipped. She grabbed a cigarette for herself and sat down across from him on the opposite bed. Their red cherries illuminated their tear-tracked faces well enough even without the lamp’s egg-yolk light. Eric and her looked a lot alike—same color of hair, same round noses, same hazel eyes.

“You got everybody calling you mommy?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said.

“How’d that start?” he wondered.

“Oh, I don’t know,” she sighed. “It just stuck. It became a selling point.”

“Mommy for a day,” he said. “I bet your pimp loves it.”

“Sure,” she said.

Eric shucked the Ziploc bag off his penis. Vaginal residue stained his fingertips. “Can you get me my underwear?”

She held her cigarette between her smeared lips and grabbed his boxers. “Put your feet up, dear.” He put his feet up. She wrangled the garment over his fat thighs, tucked his penis away like she was changing a diaper, then returned to the other bed and ashed her cigarette.

Eric stared at her. “I never met my mother,” he said.

Her eyes remained downturned. “I’m sorry to hear.”

“Yeah,” he said. “Me too. She pushed me out and handed me off to my dad. Didn’t even stick around to sign the birth certificate or anything. I never figured out who she was. Dad never told me.”

The crack whore keeled forward, cupped her forehead in her hands. Mucus dripped out of her nostrils and crept down the length of her cigarette. The cherry fizzled and broke off onto the carpet. “I’m sure she regrets it very much,” she said. “I’m sure she wishes she could go back and fix things.”

“Nothing’ll fix it,” Eric said. “Nothing’ll take back the eighteen years I spent living in hell.”

She wiped her nose. Eric handed her the matchbook. It took four matches before she could re-light her snotty cigarette. “Was it that bad?” she asked, looking at the black hole television now.

Neon light flashed through the blinds and bounced off their warbled reflections. “It was bad,” Eric said. “It was really, really bad. I’ve got this half-brother—you’ve met him—his name’s Scott. He’s a goddamn Satanist. He beat me up my whole childhood. And my dad and step-mom never did anything about it. I was only there because I had to be. They didn’t want me. And neither did my mother.”

“She couldn’t have known that would happen,” the crack whore said. “She was young and scared. She wanted what was best for you.”

“I’ve only got one friend in the entire world,” Eric said. “Kenny McCormick. I’m kind of in love with him, if you want to know the truth. He offered to blow me earlier. I said no. Out in the parking lot—just before I came in—him and Scott got into it. Kenny’s my confidant, you see. He’s been wanting to kill Scott for years. _He_ knows what’s best for me. And I wouldn’t take it. I turned my back on him, you see. Scott probably killed him. He’s probably dead out there, and I let it happen. So me and my mother, we’re a lot alike.”

The crack whore cried eighteen years worth of guilt. Her cigarette fell and singed a hole into the comforter already littered with cigarette burns. Eric reached across the empty space between them and picked it up. He almost stuck it into her thigh, but smashed it out in the bedside table’s ashtray.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

“Liane Cartman,” the crack whore sobbed.

“I’m Eric Tenorman,” he said. “Are you my mother?”


End file.
